


The Psychology Behind Competition

by Delirious_And_Misanthrophic_2309



Series: Almost Human: Sports [1]
Category: Almost Human
Genre: Basketball, John's leg, M/M, MXs, Other cops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious_And_Misanthrophic_2309/pseuds/Delirious_And_Misanthrophic_2309
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The precinct holds a basketball tourney. Detective Paul gets a little rough towards John, using his mechanical (I don't think I will ever say <i>that</i> word.) limb against him and injuring John. Dorian's just a little protective of John, but he responds very maturely, by kicking Paul's ass in the tournament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Psychology Behind Competition

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW LITERALLY NOTHING 'BOUT BASKETBALL. 'Kay? We played it in zero hour for like, six days. All I know is, you can't double-dribble and kicking the opposing team members when they're trying to guard you isn't OK. 
> 
> That's why they're playing "Approximation Basketball", also known as "Loose Basketball", where the rules are kinda... Eh. Just, "eh". Basically, roughing is OK.

They'd hold miniature sports competitions within the precinct every so often. Part of the reason was to stay in shape, but it also served as a way to burn off some steam for those who were chained to their desk doing paperwork. It also served as a nice way to trim-down egos and get that over-powering testosterone-filled tension out. 

This time around, the game was basketball. Though they all generally preferred to play a much more casual version of the game, it did heat up quite quickly. Several weeks of alpha male personality vs alpha male personality finally getting settled in a simple display of physical prowess by who could wrack-up the most points. Much healthier than their usual pissing matches and shot challenges. 

It was disputed for a brief moment about whether or not the MXs should compete, as they don't have "tension" to relieve. There was also question to one team having an advantage over the other, but that was quickly dismissed by the notion that, for every one human, there was one MX, so the teams _would_ be even. 

"How will this work?" Dorian asked John, as they walked into the large rec room. Other cops and their MXs were already there, standing around and chatting idly. 

"Simple." John began, grabbing a basketball and squeezing it, judging it's worth and bouncing it once. That one must have been an invalid, because he places it back and picked up another one, repeating the same demonstration. "Because we're partners, we'll be on the same team. They can't have us falling out-of-sync with each other because of a damned game." He tossed the ball to Dorian, who ran his fingers over the smoothly bubbled surface. 

"Some of the others take these competitions seriously, but I don't really give a shit." John admitted. 

Dorian understood. John was too detached from anybody else to have "rivals" in the traditional sense. John knew, or at least Dorian was pretty sure he knew, what some of the department thought of him, but he doubted John lost slept over one of his coworkers' thoughts of him. 

No, John lost sleep for different reasons. He had so many conflicting thoughts, and so much misdirected anger that grief it manifested itself negatively onto John's psyche and body. He didn't know what to be mad at, so he chose everything, including himself. Same with his grief. He was smothered with so much information all at once when he awoke, he was probably half-way back into a shock-induced coma. The loss of his partner, his squad, the knowledge that it was his fault, his doing, that got them all killed, and the fact that he was here, alive, fully intact—mostly, sickened him. Then when he couldn't find Anna, and then when he realized it her that caused this, which also inadvertently thrown more blame onto his shoulders. His leg, it was a made of the same material that those MXs were made of—the very same thing that let him and his partner down. What could he grieve for? What _couldn't_ he grieve for? So many things in his life had been destroyed in his life, he was easier to count the things that weren't. He had all this blame he wanted to so desperately give to somebody else—and he tried, but it only went so far, and self-loathing and depreciation consumed his grief. Burying the pain was much easier than dealing with it. 

So Dorian understood completely, John's lackluster for these competitions. They required a person with an ego that could be bruised, and John wouldn't put any stock in himself. The fact that Dorian does did not matter in this instant, because Dorian himself doesn't feel the need to one-up half of the department, so he'll treat this with the same cool-detachment that John is. That was the plan, at least. 

Maldonado came out and sectioned off the teams, putting John and Dorian against Paul and his team. As chief, she elected to sit and watch, driving much more enjoyment out of watching her agents go at each other's throats like animals. 

The teams were six against six, John and Dorian on one team, along with two other agents and their MXs, against Paul and some other agents and MXs who Dorian was not acquainted with. 

The game was set to a timer: 60 minutes. A simple game of stamina in both physical and mental capacities. Being able to keep up from running cross-court continuously, as well as mentally being able to decipher you're opponents fake-lefts, as well as formulate you're own. But the drive behind this was all lost if you didn't have a grudge or a point to prove, or a ego to defend. 

Paul sauntered out to the center of the court, the ball tucked underneath his arm. 

"Since you guys got gimpy and fritzy, we'll give you a handicap. Here." He tossed the ball at John, snickering. 

John weighed his options. On one hand, he could not give a shit, like he was planning, and loose and be subject to "dead-beat loner" labels, or he could try and loose, because he didnt trust the leg to walk on, much less extreme physical activity, and still be mocked. But Paul just dug himself a grave.

See, if it were him and him alone Paul were insulting, he didnt give two shits, but Paul just needed to bring Dorian into it. 

Gimpy, he could live with, because it was true. But calling Dorian _fritzy_ , something people still say when computers malfunction... Was unacceptable. 

So John passed the ball back. Hard. Paul caught it, barely containing the "oof" from it slamming into his unguarded chest. He recovered quickly, the bastard, smirked, and tossed it back with equal force, that John was fully prepared for. He dashed off immediately, taking Paul's unprepared and cocky state against him, and using it to score a basket while Paul's team barely registered him moving. 

They recovered, however. Adapting to John's skill and perhaps exceeding his skill, particularly the MXs. But the humans seemed more interested in snapping at each other, and the MXs were content for this to unfold, sticking to guarding their fellow MXs. Which left Dorian wondering back and forth between points, going where he saw an opening, or when John and him communicated that _yes, I am feigning right, yes I see them, no they will not get me, I need you over there, open_ seemingly telepathically. Dorian got a few of his own shots in—of course he did—it was all angles. 

Paul's team was able to gain back some points, however, when John's false limb faltered, and an MX quickly took advantage and sped across the court. 

This gave Paul an idea as he analyzed his thinning options. John was still physically able, however his mistrust in the prosthetic limb is his weakness. There's nothing wrong with the limb itself, and in actuality, it should be more trustworthy than a flesh and bone one. John tended to fake whatever side he was dribbling the ball on, and his initial step with this false limb is always unsure, even with the adrenaline in his system. 

The next time John faked left, Paul had him. He inserted himself against Paul's mechanical limb and slid it out from under John, taking the ball and making a shot, sinking it.

As John fell backwards, his weight and full force of the fall landed on his mechanical limb, and he's sure he felt a few of their mechanical nerve-endings dislodging, which effectively cut him off from the worst of the pain. 

Whereas skin gets cut and muscles tear and the body bleeds, the mechanical limb's exo-skin cracks and the connects dislodge and the transparent-aluminium shatters. 

Next thing John knew, Dorian was right in front of him, leaning over him, shielding him from the sight of everybody else.

Gentle hands cupped his face, bringing their gazes to meet each other. A frantic, but smooth voice pulled John out of his semi-shock. 

"John, John," he repeated. The other courts had ceased playing and fallen silent to watch the spectacle of the resident PTSD, self-medicating cop and the over-sympathetic DRN. 

"Are you okay?" Thumbs were now stroking his cheeks. "Your leg has several misaligned circuits. Rudy can repare them." John suddenly realized the amount of people who were staring at them, and the murmurs of judgement that he should probably care about. But he didn't. All he could care about was the concern and secondary-pain that was written across it. 

John groaned and tried to put weight on his mechanical limb—but it was pointless. By several misaligned circuits, Dorian meant that all of his artificial nerve-endings were severed. No "circuits", as Dorian put them, to send signals to, as such, no leg responded. It was like using a computer that had been disconnected from the server. John tried not to wince at the comparison.

"I—I ca..n't," John tried to make his voice not terribly desperate. The tension in Dorian's face eased greatly at hearing that heavy, rough voice finally speak. 

Dorian smiled and pulled his partner up, letting the human use him as a chrutch. Gazes were still firmly locked onto them. John fisted Dorian's shirt and held on tighter, burying his face into the firm shoulder as a nerve or two tried to realign itself. John felt Dorian's grasp on his hip tighten and pull him closer, to the point where Dorian was essentially dragging the man. 

John slid down the wall, gritting his teeth as more artificial nerves attempted to connect. He grappled for Dorian when his partner attempted to pull away, stealing him down into a fierce embrace. 

He whispered into Dorian's ear, harshly, "You beat him. God damn it, you beat him and you make sure everybody knows it was you." John released and leaned against the wall, grimacing at the needlelike flares of pain running through his leg. 

Dorian squeezed John's flesh and blood leg in silent affirmation, with an underlying comforting note to the gesture. 

John watched his partner walk off, back towards the center if the court, turning sharply on his heal and challenging Paul. 

"How nice," he mocked, "the already-broken man gets a little scratch and his loyal synthetic gets all tough." Dorian didnt comment, just gestured for him to get on with it, already. 

Anger and this feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach propelled Dorian. There was no dread that he would fail. That possibility didn't compute to Dorian. He had to beat him, but not just a little. Here he could beat him at a physical game, and he would. Cut the man's ego down a size able mark, so hopefully, he could help John rebuild his. Perhaps John witnessing the man who had been endlessly insulting and rude to both of them have his sickenly haughty attitude taken down a few notches would inspire something in John. 

Dorian knew John didn't put an ounce of self-worth on himself, but John seemed to be bothered every time somebody said _anything_ that could hurt one of Dorian's feelings— _"His feelings may have been programmed, but that doesn't make them anyless real"_ —He remembered the time somebody sneered at Dorian's empathy toward a victim. He had expressed how heart-breaking it must be, to know that you're leaving everybody who you cared for. 

Dorian realizes, with a heavy pang to his artificial heart, that if he died—or shutdown, whichever—there wouldn't be anyone he'd leave behind. Nobody who'd be saddened by his discontinuation. Except John. John, he thought, mattered to him, and he, and least he hoped, he mattered to John. Evidence and all logic and intuition would point to yes, and this knowledge caused a much tighter, sweet feeling to replace the darker ones. A smiled turned up the edges of his lips. And if he noticed John's own expression lighten just a little out of the corner of his eye, that absolutely did not make his own smile reach his eyes.

Dorian didn't even notice, when the blare of the clock's timer sounded, and Paul swore and quickly left the court. Dorian looked up at the scoreboard, somehow he was too distracted to internally record the score of the game himself. He couldn't even remember most of the game, his thoughts so consumed with his injured partner—Rudy must've come in at some point and repaired it. Such a seemingly complex procedure probably took him mere minutes. 

**HOME : 124  
GUEST : 68 **

Dorian had beaten Paul by fifty-six points. More importantly, Paul's insistence to degrade them both would teeter down, at least publicly. He took some satisfaction in the idea that he was able to please John. John wanted this, a lot more than Dorian had ever seen him want anything personal. He would make it a point to try to keep promises, but John's would always come first. The self-loathing man needed someone doting on him, who considered him before every one else, no matter how much John would be convinced he didn't deserve it. 

John, with his newly restored limb had found himself within Dorian's personal bubble, not caring enough at whom might still be in the rec room. What reproachful comments would be muttered. He didnt care. Dorian had beat that bastard, that bastard Paul, who mocked his partner for being "faulty". The ass-hole deserved the tail-end of every event, as far as John was concerned. Murphey's law would do quite nicely if invested onto Paul's person for a week. He was sure his probably ill-mannered joy at seeing his colleague beat was written across his face. Good. Some people said he should smile more. 

"That was fucking fantastic, man." Dorian smiled softly, reaching out for his partner's hand, not hiding his pleasure at meeting and equally willing one. 

"Your leg?" He asked, already knowing the answer. But he wanted to hear more of that gruff voice. He felt John inch closer, and he marveled in that musky, not too over power masculine scent that was all John's own. 

"Rudy came up around the time you reached seventy." John sighed, tugging on Dorian's hand, "C'mon, lets go home."

They were both fully aware of the few cops who lingered with their MXs afterwards, as well as their unprofessional remarks about the nature of their relationship. And neither of them cared. Dorian squeezed John's hand back as _'yes I am coming with you, know I will not try to run I enjoy this contact so please do not pull away.'_ Neither let the other go until they had to get into the car. After sliding into the drivers' seat and securing his seatbelt, John grasped for Dorian's hand, resuming their contact once again. 

Their car ride was silent and brief, and Dorian stared out the window at the flashing lights of the other cars, wondering idly if something as spectacular as this was happening in their lives. 

Dorian knows a lot of people would disagree with him, and question his sanity on willingly sticking with John, a man who's self-worth was null, who he knew had all this passion buried underneath the layers of hurt and callouses.

How long, he wonders, will it take for him to peel John's pain away, and fill him with all the love and tender caring and sweet reassurances he deserves. 

He takes John's hand, kissing his knuckles individually. An elated feeling washed over him seeing the lines on John's face relax, and his face assuming a tiny smile. Not long at all, Dorian decides. 


End file.
